Never More, Never Less
by TheConjuringMind
Summary: He could never give her what she truly wanted, but he could certainly try... Enoch/Olive Centric. Enolive. Based on the film. Enoch can't find it in himself to outwardly express his feelings for Olive, so he takes to writing her a letter.


**UPDATED AUTHOR'S NOTE 6/12/2018: Thank you** **EmmaBloom2006** **, for your review!  
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 **Author's Note: AU, takes place before the film. Enoch learns of Olive's feelings for him, and is conflicted about how to express his own feelings for her, while also struggling to recognize if he has any.**

 **Disclaimer: I Don't Own Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children.**

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He could never give her what she wanted.

What she so definitely deserved.

She was too bright for his darkness.

Too warm for his cold heart (if he indeed had one).

Too sweet for his corrupt ways.

She wanted to feel, and be held.

To be told she was loved, and adored.

She needed confirmations, not uncertainties.

And try as he might, with odd-placed compliments, or occasional pleasantries.

He could never quite tell her what she needed to hear.

He couldn't tell her he loved her, for it would take every fiber in his being to do so. And if done, he'd never be able to repeat it.

He couldn't hold her, he realized, because physical contact was just so unnecessary and unfamiliar to him.

He didn't like being held, or coddled like a child.

Didn't like the thought of having someone love him, and expect to be loved back.

Because in all honesty, he simply couldn't.

He wasn't capable, he told himself.

Didn't have a legitimate emotion in him.

All that he _could_ feel was anger, and rage.

Sadness, and disappointment.

He had no room in his heart, or mind, for even the concept of loving another.

It was hard enough to tell when he _cared_ for someone, how would he ever be able to tell if he _loved_ someone?

He could tell himself he loved her, if he wanted, but would he be lying to himself?

He wanted her to think - to _know_ \- that his feelings for her were at least half as deep as hers were for him.

But how could he possibly construe _that?_

He'd tried being nice to her.

Keeping his anger under control when he'd had a particularly bad day.

And attempting to leave her out of the long list of people he'd lash out at when pressured.

He'd tried smiling at her once.

His mouth pulled up at the corners, and his white teeth revealing their shine.

But she turned away from him abruptly.

Surprise and an unnerving look pasted on her usually happy face.

It wasn't until he'd looked at himself in a mirror later on, that he realized his attempt at a 'smile' looked more of a grimace.

He'd shuddered to himself then.

Pitying whatever fool had had the misfortune of glancing at him when he tried looking 'happy'.

Touching was out of the question, and smiling, he'd discovered, was no better an option.

He didn't know _how_ to express his feelings for her, let alone _understand_ them.

So he decided to try the one thing that might work.

He'd resorted to writing her a letter.

He'd gotten himself the best stationary he could find (Miss Peregrine was quick to offer him hers when he'd asked), and proceeded to put down in words, what he couldn't possibly express outwardly.

He wrote how he felt when she'd touched his arm with one of her delicate gloved hands.

How he felt when she'd laugh at his sarcastic jokes, and smile at his wry humor.

How it hurt him when she was sad or disheartened.

How he appreciated the help she'd give him in making his experimental toys and playthings come to life.

How he liked the rich color of her hair, and the gorgeous tint of her lips.

He wrote how he didn't like much physical contact, but couldn't find it in himself to mind when she'd steal a kiss from him on the cheek.

He wrote how he felt he couldn't express his liking towards her (at least not openly), and how he wanted her to know that he _did_ indeed like her.

He told her he was terribly sorry, if not, a little apologetic, for being unable to give her what she wanted, and so definitely deserved.

And he told her that although he could write her letters, lots and lots of letters, he could never show her more affection than he already had.

Then he signed it, sealed it, and slipped it under her bedroom door one evening.

She locked herself in her room the same night.

Read it, and cried.

He stayed up all night in his own room, with the feeling of that of a cold metal rod poking at his heart.

He leaned his head over his desk, and covered his face in his hands.

He felt atrocious, and empty.

Dreadful, and incomplete.

He bathed in self-loathing until near dawn, when he heard a light rapping on his door.

He made his way to his feet, and wiped away tears that he hadn't realized had fallen. He guessed he truly _did_ have feelings other than anger after all.

He took a deep breath, and opened his door.

Just as suspected, it was Olive.

Her hands were folded awkwardly in front of her person.

And her face wore an unfamiliar expression.

He leaned himself against the doorway, dreading her entry.

The last thing he wanted was her to enter his room, and cry her heart out into the morning.

He inhaled rather deeply, and prepared himself for a bawling out.

But she didn't yell at him.

She didn't tell him she hated him.

Didn't swing at him, or attempt kneeing him in the shin.

She just stood there.

One hand holding the other arm awkwardly, and her cheeks looking especially rosy (possibly from crying).

She took a deep breath, and seemed to be readying herself before her intended spiel.

Enoch shut his eyes.

For he didn't want to see the shattered look of disappointment on her face when she'd undoubtedly ask him _why_ he had written her the letter in the first place.

But she didn't.

Instead, she said;

"Thank you."

Two short words, almost inaudible to the ear.

His eyes snapped open, and his mouth was agape.

"You read it, didn't you?" he asked carefully.

She nodded.

"Aren't you feeling rather melancholy, or _cross?_ " he said cautiously.

"No..." she blushed, looking away from him rather shyly.

"Quite the opposite, actually. I know you aren't good at expressing your feelings, Enoch, so the letter...Well, it put things in perspective for me."

"It _did?_ "

"Yes...It made me feel..." She struggled for a moment before settling on an appropriate word.

" _Warm_ inside." she finished.

Warm? He inwardly wondered, unknowingly quirking a brow.

"You've never shown me much affection or tolerance -" she began.

"-And for that, I am sorry! " he interjected quickly.

"-But," She continued. "I know that you love me. Or at least, I'd always felt that you did after I told _you_ that I loved you. And now that you've expressed it, in your letter...well, I just, I've never felt so happy before in my life. I don't think I can contain it. And I wanted to tell you, in person, so you know that my love for you still flourishes." She finished, smiling rather awkwardly.

Enoch gripped the doorway to steady himself, and drew in a startled breath.

Never, in all the scenarios he had thought through, did she say such words.

After hearing her bawling in the room across from him, he hadn't expected her interaction with him to have that of a positive nature.

"But, were you not crying in your room?" he asked suddenly.

"Oh, you heard that?" she blushed, her cheeks turning the color of beets. "I was so relieved to read that you'd loved me back, that I'd taken to crying and making such a fuss about it. It's stupid, I know, but..."

"No," He shook his head, a genuine smile starting to grace his face. "It's not."

He glanced down at her nervous hand, and somehow managed to take it in his own.

"I'm sorry I can never give you more than a letter, though. I wish I could find it in myself to always hold your hand when you needed comforting, or _kiss_ you when you wanted affection..." he trailed off sadly.

"No, this is what I _want_." she assured him. "I don't want you to pretend for me. Or lie to yourself. If you are going to love me, I want you to be genuine about it. And if you're not good at expressing it, or you feel uncomfortable about doing it openly, then that's fine. I understand it. Because I understand _you,_ and I wouldn't dare try and make you out to be anything any different. If you can't give me anything more than a letter every now and then, so be it. I happen to love letters, even ones written by _you,_ " She teased. "And I don't expect you to give me anymore than that."

"A-Are you sure?" he asked after a while, awkwardly clearing his throat when it came out rather timidly.

"One-hundred percent," she confirmed, taking his hand in her gloved one, and leaning in to give him a quick peck on the cheek.

"Never more, never less."

Enoch found himself blushing then, and his heart (if he ever had one to begin with), seemed to burst, and grow two sizes all at once.

He may not be able to find it in himself _now_ to love her as she deserved, but maybe with time, he would learn how.

Her hand in his already felt more comfortable, more natural. And eventually, he was sure, he'd be able to find it in himself to kiss her one day.

Perhaps sometime soon.

The early morning's light beamed in through his bedroom's window, and made her hair appear as fire.

His heart was set aflame, and for the first time in his life, he felt complete.


End file.
